


Run Back Home

by Romiress



Series: The Stack - Oneshots in Need of Expansion [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Brief mentions of Slade Wilson being a bad dad, But he's obviously trying at least, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Batman Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Slade Wilson's on the wrong side of the planet when the world ends, and he can't get back fast enough.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Slade Wilson, Slade Wilson & Grant Wilson, Slade Wilson & Joseph Wilson
Series: The Stack - Oneshots in Need of Expansion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955284
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	Run Back Home

Slade Wilson is on the wrong side of the planet when everything falls apart. It's a routine enough job escorting someone who a lot of people would prefer to be dead, but he hasn't run into much trouble. They're cutting their way across sun-baked clay flats when someone spots two men by the side of the road. One's lying down, and the other's hunched over him.

Slade's wary that it might be a trap, but when the hunched man turns his head, revealing a mouth soaked with blood, he decides that there's no time like the present for killing cannibals.

He pops the man in the head, only once they're good and down does he leave the truck they're riding in, heading over to inspect.

He was right: the bastard on the ground was getting eaten,

And when the bastard on the ground starts to stir despite very clearly being dead, Slade decides to shoot him in the head too before returning to his car.

"Zombies," he says simply. "Contracts off."

The General he's supposed to be escorting looks genuinely stunned.

"What? You can't just _cancel_ the contract—"

"I can do whatever I damn well please," Slade says.

He considers shoving the General out of the damn truck right then and there, but Slade's never been above using someone as bait, and that isn't about to change.

The city they reach is chaos. It's hard for Slade to tell how long it's been since the outbreak started, but at the very least the power is still on. He abandons the General, taking to the rooftops as he heads for the nearest satellite dish, thankful for once that Wintergreen _insisted_ he learn how to hijack one.

He manages a call, at least, but no one picks up on the other end. He's been out of contact for less than four days, and the lack of response is deeply alarming. Wintergreen always answers.

He calls three other numbers and gets no response from any.

One of the creatures—zombies, really, because Slade isn't going to try and pretend that isn't what they are—manages to break the door down, forcing a hasty retreat. Slade can take out any _individual_ zombie, but he's not going to take the risk of fighting a horde of them.

Besides, he already knows enough: whatever's happened isn't reserved for the isolated backwater town that Slade was supposed to be hiding the General in. Whatever's happening is also happening at _home,_ and that means Slade needs to get back there as fast as possible.

Getting back fast is easier said than done.

He can't order any pickups, which means he's forced to rely on what he has on hand. He ends up hot-wiring a new truck after putting down the zombie trapped inside, turning right around and heading to the nearest airport. It's a small one, really only fit for small, local flights to the more remote mountainous reasons, but Slade's a good enough pilot to take off in a two-man plane by himself.

It's about as low-tech as planes come, which Slade is deeply thankful for. His radios pick up precious little as he flies, the skies nearly silent. In a few places, there _are_ signs of life: distress calls being radioed out. Warnings to stay away from cities.

Slade ignores all of them.

The plane only gets him so far, even pushing it to its absolute limits. He makes a choice to come down well away from any airport, a rough landing on a long stretch of road.

He's a man on a mission, and he refuses to let himself be distracted.

In a lot of ways. travelling for him is almost _easier_ with the world falling to pieces. No one's checking ID. There's no need for stealth. Slade can just focus on getting from point A to point B as fast as humanly possible.

No one is around to so much as bat an eye when Slade steals a full sized plane. No one is around to get upset when he lands the plane on its belly, skidding down the runway at Gotham International Airport in a shower of sparks.

The plane burns, and Slade doesn't care.

Every step of the way is a blur, a nearly incoherent mess. He doesn't _care_ that the world is falling apart. He doesn't _care_ that people are dying.

The only thing he cares about is getting home.

Every step closer to home only intensifies the dread he feels in his heart. He knows the odds, knows how blindingly unlikely it is for him to find anyone waiting for him. The suburb he's called his home since Adeline first left the army seems almost untouched compared to the larger city, but it's still in an extremely poor state. Some houses look perfectly normal. Some have boards over the doors, or writing. One garage door has _dead_ written on the front, leaving no question what the quiet _thumps_ from the other side of the door may be. Cars largely sit where they were left, although quite few are missing.

Probably people had at least some time to evacuate, although Slade can't imagine where they would go.

His house looks untouched, but the car's missing. It should be a sign of hope, an indication that Adeline took the boys and left early, but it's also a signal that sends Slade into despair.

He has no idea how he's going to find them.

Adeline could have gone anywhere or done anything, and he has no way of finding her. Cellphone networks have already started to fail, spotty at best and overloaded at worst. She might have gone to the cabin out in Vermont, or she might have gone to visit extended family, or... or anything.

For all he knows, she was at the mall when the end of the world came rolling through.

He tries the house anyway, letting himself in with his key. The house is silent as a grave, with none of the telltale foot falls of the walking dead from upstairs. Almost certainly empty, but Slade goes through the whole house anyway, just to be sure. He knows he's checking for bodies, but refuses to let himself really think about it until he reaches the end of his search and lets out a wheeze.

No bodies.

He heads to the kitchen and rifles through the cupboards, finding some of the non-perishable goods they keep gone. It's a good sign: it doesn't look like anyone's ransacked the place, but someone let with intent, knowing they weren't likely to come back. He doubles back, checking Joey and Grant's drawers, and finds most of their clothes missing.

Good. It's a good sign, and yet his heart isn't really into it. He doesn't know where to find them. His family is somewhere out there, and they _need_ him, but...

But he isn't there.

He heads down to the basement and forces the door to his storeroom. There's plenty of ammo and other gear, and he carefully packs it for transport, unsure of if he'll ever return. Vermont's his best bet, and it's going to be a long trip by any measure. He can't keep borrowing random planes: the fuel in them is going bad, rendering them dangerous _at best._ More than likely they'll just be downright deadly, and Slade can't take that risk.

Which means cars, for as long as cars will carry him.

He packs a bag with his most important supplies. Some food that hasn't yet gone bad. A change of clothes. Some gear. More supplies for surviving in a world after the end of the world.

He goes to check the fridge—closed since the power went off and probably at least _mostly_ viable—when he spots the note.

In retrospect, he's not clear how he missed it. It's right at eye-level, pinned to the fridge with a magnet. It has his name on it in big, unfamiliar writing, and it should be impossible to miss for anyone except him, do laser focused on the absence of his family he's lucky he saw it at all.

 _Slade Wilson,_ the note says.

Slade swears his heart stops beating as he reaches out, taking the note in hand. It's a single piece of paper, probably straight out of a printer, but the contents have been hand-written. In-context, he'd assume it was from Adeline, but he knows her writing, and this isn't it. It's been folded, but the moment Slade removes the magnet it falls open, and he turns it around to read it.

 _If you are reading this, I'll be surprised,_ the note starts, which does not inspire confidence in Slade at all. _But I made a promise that I would leave a message for you on the off chance you did come home in search of your family. I have your sons with me. I found them by themselves, and they said they'd been separated from their mother. I think they both know that she's gone, but aren't willing to admit it. The youngest was distressed by the thought that you might not know where he was, so I told him that when I went to get their things, I'd leave this message._

 _I'm not sure what else to say, so I'll leave it at that. They're safe with me in Wayne Manor_ —we're using the defenses made to keep the press out to our advantage. If you ever find this, you can meet us there.

The note isn't signed. Slade reads it twice more, committing it to memory, and then tucks it into his pocket. He has a destination, at least. A place where his boys may or may not be.

He doesn't let himself dwell on Adeline. He can't. Not when Joey and Grant are supposedly out there, being cared for by _someone._

Someone that isn't him.

Wayne Manor isn't nearby, and getting there as fast as possible means cutting straight through the heart of Gotham. The suburbs were a walk in the park compared to the mess that waits him there, with cars piled up, obstructing his way.

With his gear on he's relatively safe, but _walking_ across Gotham isn't going to work out. He locates a parking garage, ignoring the screwed up ground level, and searches until he finds a motorcycle he can take. He doesn't even have to _try,_ because the keys are already in the ignition for reasons he can't fathom. Maybe the rider was bitten before he made it out of the garage. Maybe they got distracted.

Their loss is his gain.

He walks it as far down the ramp as he can go, then has to lower it down over the side to avoid the pile of cars at the bottom. It's slow going, not helped by the fact that he has to pause occasionally to squeeze off a few shots, taking out any zombies that get too close.

Once he's on the ground, though, it's comparatively smooth sailing. The bike's smaller than he'd like, but agile enough to avoid most of the major obstructions. He's careful to avoid zombies, and outside of a few that lurch out of alleyways without any warning, he's able to reach the road to Wayne Manor without much trouble. The road's always been comparatively empty, and outside of one car that's parked in a ditch as if the driver decided to fuck off into the woods, the road's empty.

Wayne Manor's still standing. It isn't burned to the ground, or filled with zombies or anything else he's feared. It looks much the same as it did _before_ the end of the world, only with a few additions. It's hard to miss that the ground level windows have been blocked off, reinforced to prevent any stray zombies from getting in. The gate, similarly, has been reinforced, and there's a small pack of zombies nudging up against it, trying to gain access.

Slade parks the bike away from the road where no one's liable to knock it over, and then doubles back to the gate. He makes short work of the zombies there, wondering how the people inside manage things, and then simply hops the gate.

He's a lot more agile than any zombie could hope to be.

If there's any sort of security, he can't see it. There's no siren, no obvious warning. Really, there's nothing at all: the manor is quiet, and far enough from the city, the noises are primarily ones of nature. The wind rustling the leaves. What sounds like some crickets making noise out on the grounds.

He makes it halfway to the front door when it pops open and a man steps out.

The man's outfit is absolutely ridiculous. He's got armor, but it's obviously been heavily modified for life after the end. He's spiked bracers and thick leather gloves, and his knee pads have little spikes of their own. They're not small spikes, either: they're more like an ice pick, and Slade realizes that they're set up that way so that if he gets into melee with a zombie, he can spike their brain and render them brain-dead.

Of course, Slade spends less time staring at his armor and more time staring at the crossbow that's been leveled at him.

"We're not open for looting," the man says simply. He's... well, young, or at least younger than Slade. Late twenties? Early thirties? It's hard to tell. He's relatively well-kept despite the end of the world, the ghost of a five o'clock shadow on his face.

"Not here to loot," Slade fires back. His gun's holstered, but he doesn't doubt for a second that he could draw, fire, and dodge a bolt before the bastard could possibly load a second.

"Dressed like that? Not sure I believe you."

"Says the man who welded ice picks to his arms."

There are a few moments of tense silence as Slade stares him down.

And then the silence is broken by a damn near _deafening_ yell.

"Dad!"

Joey shoots past the man in the door, despite the man's desperate attempt to intercept. He's not quite as fast as a very determined nine-year-old, who simply dodges his hand in favor of launching himself down the steps towards Slade.

Slade's never felt such a relief in his life. He drops down on one knee, scooping Joey up when he reaches him. His armor isn't going to be the softest, but Joey doesn't seem to mind.

"It's you, right? I knew you'd come." Joey isn't going to let him get a word in edgewise, so Slade simply answers by reaching up, peeling his helmet off to Joey's delight.

When he looks up, the man on the porch has lowered his crossbow, and Grant—and two other kids around his age—are squinting at him from behind the man with the crossbow.

"I'm going to assume you're Joey and Grant's father."

"Smart guess," Slade fires back, getting to his feet. Rather than letting Joey go, he just lifts Joey with one arm, and Joey leans against him for support. "You're the one who left the note?"

"I told you he'd find the note!" Joey says excitedly. He's full of energy, even in the end of days. Grant scowls at him from the porch, and the man beside him finally stows the crossbow, apparently having decided that Slade isn't going to pose any risk right then.

"You should come inside."

In other circumstances, there'd be no way to get Slade to just _walk_ into a house like that. Too many blind spots, and going into a place owned by someone with a weapon and a willingness to use it...

But Joey and Grant have been living there, so it can't be that bad.

Joey refuses to be set down, while Grant sulks and keeps his distance. The other two are a black haired boy and a red-haired girl, both of who seem to be around Grant's age, or maybe a year or two younger. Both seem deeply curious, looking Slade over as he enters, but it's the boy who speaks first.

"What's with the armor?"

"Dick," the other man says, shooing him away. "Give us some space, we're going to need to talk."

"This is my dad," Joey says helpfully. He throws his arms around Slade's shoulders, staying firmly in place and showing no signs of getting down. "I told you guys he'd come."

The boy—Dick, apparently, assuming that's actually his _name_ —scrunches up his face.

"No one said he wouldn't, Joey!"

"Grant did," the girl says, and the other man lets out a weary sigh, shooing the kids away to give them space before holding out his hand.

"Bruce."

Slade can put two and two together, and he uses his off hand to shake Bruce's hand, his one arm occupied with keeping Joey in place.

"Wayne, I assume?"

Stories of Wayne's return to Gotham were big news when it first happened, but Slade hasn't heard a damn thing about him since.

"That's me. I'd ask your name, but Joey's said it plenty."

"You've been living here since everything went to shit?"

Bruce, to Slade's _intense_ amusement, makes a face at the word _shit,_ as if a bit of swearing is the worst thing they have to deal with.

"Since everything fell apart, yes. I found your boys on my first trip out. They'd... well, blockaded themselves in a store. They're very resourceful kids."

"We were lucky," Grant says, as petulant as ever. "If Bruce hadn't found us, we'd be dead."

"Dad would have found us!" Joey announces. Slade isn't so sure. It took too long to get to Gotham, and he didn't even know where they _were._ He doesn't have trackers in them for fuck's sake.

"Grant, can you please take your brother and the others? I need to talk to Mr. Wilson _alone."_ Bruce leaves no room for argument, and Joey reluctantly allows himself to be let down by Slade and rounded up by Grant. Bruce gestures towards a side office, and Slade follows him in.

He can take Bruce if he tries anything, but with Joey and Grant nearby...

"I'm not going to patronize you by pretending I don't know who you are," Bruce says, and Slade assumes he means _Joey and Grant's dad_ for one very confusing moment before Bruce continues. "I'm... familiar enough to know who Deathstroke is, and the costume's too distinct to miss."

Oh. Well, Slade's certainly surprised about _that._

"What's a rich boy like you doing poking around in mercenary work, _Wayne?"_

Bruce's expression darkens, and for a moment Slade's actually genuinely, just for a moment, _intimidated._

It's a very intense look, to say the least.

"That's my business, and my business alone. The only thing you need to know is that I _am_ going to keep those boys safe, with or without you. The world as we know it is over. I've lost contact with everyone, even people on the opposite side of the planet."

Bruce is nothing if not intense, and Slade raises an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. He's in armor, and he's got more fighting ability in one finger than Wayne has in his entire body... and yet he feels almost _compelled_ to play along, because Joey and Grant are so obviously attached to him, taking his orders without complaint.

"And?" Slade says simply.

"I've heard some less than flattering views of your parenting skills." No question who _those_ were from. "But I think we're past the point where we can afford to be bothered by that. My options are severely limited, and keeping four kids safe is... difficult."

"You're not alone, though."

It's a guess. Slade actually has no idea if Bruce is alone, but the fact that he didn't say _keeping four kids safe by myself_ sticks out.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitches.

"No. But he's not able to manage the way I can... or the way you could. So I'm offering you an... opportunity. Stay here. Help out. I can't promise anything, but we can see where things go from there."

It's a bad deal, no question asked. Slade could find his own place with much, much better security. He could fortify it, make sure the boys were safe.

But that would mean leaving them alone at some point or another. It would mean risk.

And right then, Joey (and probably Grant) are happy enough as is.

They're safe, and that's what matters.

"Why not?" He says, letting the tension ease out of him. "We'll see where it goes."

Slade's sort of looking forward to that.

**Author's Note:**

> Will there be a sequel? Who knows, maybe. I've got a lot of projects on the go but I really wanted to just... write this.


End file.
